You Got A Stick Up Your Ass?

Hey there, crime kids. Happy fucking Monday. Say you're bored? Dreading the work week? Well, it's time once again to take a trip to the dark side, where your most violent fantasies become sins of the flesh, right here, where the hardboiled action is non-stop, at the coolest crime joint in cyberspace ... at That Killing Feeling.

In Chapter 9 of NOWHERE GIRLS, we meet FBI agents Sunday Sparks and Max Cargo, who have just commandeered the Santa Monica police headquarters as their base of operations on their quest to catch April Street and Cherry Nation. Meanwhile, The Bagger calls his favorite assistant assassin, Lemon LeBon, who's right now shakin' it at Club Cherry in West Hollywood ...


EXT. SANTA MONICA POLICE HEADQUARTERS - NIGHT
A quaint, almost run-down
building near City Hall.

The front drive is jammed
with black SUV’s.

INT. SANTA MONICA POLICE HEADQUARTERS - CONTINUOUS
A swarm of FBI AGENTS IN BLACK SUITS
are clustered around the front desk.

A FEMALE AGENT (20’s), hot-as-hell,
severe in Armani, blonde and blue-eyed,
SHOUTS at the bug-eyed DESK SERGEANT.

GORGEOUS AGENT
I could give a SHIT
about RULES OF PROCEDURE.
This is a matter
of NATIONAL SECURITY.
We’re taking over the
station, UNDERSTAND.
We’re FBI, and NO ONE
fucks with us. GOT it?

Meet SUNDAY SPARKS (30’s),
task force chief. Ruthless. Vicious.
Hell of an agent. Great legs.
And, hey -- nice rack.

SCARED DESK SERGEANT
(reaches for his phone)
Let me call the chief --

A shorter, older AGENT (40’s)
eyes burning with fire,
POUNDS on the desk with his fist.

OLDER AGENT
Now listen to me, you dumb FUCK.
Two rogue federal agents
were just involved in a
security breach at THE WHITE HOUSE.
We haven’t got time to FUCK AROUND.
Now show us a room where we can
fucking SET UP OUR EQUIPMENT,
or I’ll have you checking parking meters
in a SKIRT.

Meet MAX CARGO (50’s), senior agent.
Brusque. No-nonsense.
And right now, ready to
punch someone’s lights out.

Scared Desk Sergeant gets up.
Points down the corridor.

SCARED DESK SERGEANT
R-right this way.

SUNDAY
You got a stick up your ass?
MOVE IT.

SCARED DESK SERGEANT
(nods, starts walking)
Yes, sir. Uh, ma’am -- uh --

INT. SLEAZY CLUB - NIGHT
David Bowie/T-Rex 70’s rock
at an EAR-SHREDDING volume.

Very glam, very glitter.
The packed club is jamming.

Smoke machines. Mirrored balls.
Go-go dancers on pillars.

Boys, girls and everything inbetween
writhe with abandon.

A COOL GUY (25) and a HOT CHICK
twist and shake it.

The babe, (23), mod, waifish,
vibrates like a woman possessed.

THE CHICK
Stops dancing. Opens her eyes.
Pulls out her BlackBerry.

CLOSE ON --

The LCD display.

THE GEESE ARE IN FLIGHT.
PACK YOUR LIPSTICK. LOVE, MOM.

THE CHICK
YELLS something in the guy's ear.
BOLTS for the door.

EXT. SLEAZY CLUB - CONTINUOUS
She FLIES down the outside staircase.
Six-inch platforms CLATTER,
BANG-BANG-BANG down the metal steps.

ON THE SIDEWALK
She fingers a number on her cell.
Jumps into her red Mazda Miata convertible.

INTERCUT WITH:

EXT. OCEAN AVENUE - NIGHT
Bugs’ Black Porche SUV idles curbs side.

INT. BUGS’ SUV - CONTINUOUS
The Bagger sits in the passenger side,
talks on his cell. Winks at Bugs.
Fires up a smoke.

BAGGER
Lemon. It’s Poppa Bear.

LEMON
This is awfully
last-minute notice, Baggy.
I’m wired on coke,
completely shit-faced
and I’m wearing six-inch heels.

BAGGER
The clock's running, girlie-girl,
no time to worry about that.
You pack the trunk?

LEMON
Honey, my trunk is always packed.

BAGGER
Solid. Then let’s make some lemonade.